Behind Bloodstained Walls
by ladyknights104
Summary: Convicted of a crime he didn't commit, John Cena is sent to prison. Now he has to deal with a corrupt warden, vengeful and crazy convicts, and a stripper for a cellmate. But as his stay lengthens, he discovers the prison's many secrets along with the stories of convicts like him, making him question the solidarity of the judicial system. Summery sucks ass, AU rating may go up


**HELLO MY LITTLE KITTENS! As promised here is another lovely fanfiction for the masses! I'd like to thank my BFF Stephanie for helping me brainstorm this idea and getting it into motion. Now this is like a pilot thing so I'd like your guys' feedback to see if I should continue this. Enjoy!**

Chapter 1: The color Red

The truck shook and bounced along the road shaking the occupants inside, their chains occasionally clattering again each other. Six men sat in the back of the truck, some looking like they should be there and others not so much. One of the six, a respectable man named John Cena, looked around the mostly dark truck at the other men. Most of them seemed to be used to this, big mean guys with scars and tattoos. But John didn't care about those guys, one particular man caught his eye. Actually it wasn't a man, it was a rosy cheeked baby-faced kid. He only looked to be about 18 or so, which really tore at John's heart. He didn't know what this kid did to wind up here and he had to remind himself not to care. Where he was going it was every newbie for themselves. John shifted a little in his seat, the chains on his wrists feeling like knives cutting into his skin. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the truck wall, taking in a deep breath as the voice of the judge and jury ringing in his head.

"_And on the count of murder in the second degree, how do you find the defendant?"_

"_We find the defendant...guilty."_

Those worlds will live with him for the rest of his life, not that he had much of a life ahead of him now. He felt the truck jolt to a stop. When he heard the keys being put into the door he knew that they had arrived at their hellish destination. The heavy doors were pulled open and sunlight poured in, making them all flinch and avert their eyes. When his vision cleared he saw three prison guards standing there, waiting for them. Beyond the guards was the last thing that they would see on the outside. A large, blood red building with tall thick walls and barbed wire lining the tops. One of the guards yelled at them to move their asses and John, being the more reasonable one in the bunch, stood up first. The others followed in suit, only more bitterly. They all got in a line and headed to the front gate, John glancing up for one moment to read the sign.

_Big Red Prison _

A fitting name, considering the architect's choice of color. He trudged along past the gate into the large building, flinching when he heard the large gates shut behind him. John gulped, realizing that now there was no going back. He kept his head down as they were escorted into a large corridor, only looking up when he heard the sharp sound of a whistle. The inside of the building was ironically grey, just like the jumpsuits they were forced to wear. The person who had blown the whistle was right in front of their line. He looked like a military man with a sword at his side, and an ugly one at that. He looked over the line of men, his eyes lingering on John for a moment, before he began pacing around them.

"Before I start I'd like to welcome you to hell." The man said in a raspy but deep voice. "Some of you will be here for a long time and some of you will only leave in a body bag. Either way, I'd like to treasure our time together. You will be given a starters pack that includes a spare jumpsuit, utensils for personal hygiene, and an instruction book. I expect you read it and study it so that you can recite it backwards! You will each get a cellmate in which I hope there will be no funny business and I do request that you don't harass the female guards. Are there any questions?"

One of the older convicts raised their hand. "Are there any hookers?"

Some of the other guys laughed at that, but the man did not seem to be amused. He walked up to the convict and stared at him with cold and hard eyes before whipping out his sword and slicing it across the convict's chest, making him fall to the ground in a bloody heap. Everyone in the room became silent as some of the guards rushed to the convict, detaching his chains and carrying him away. It was only now that John realized that he had been placed next to the kid, because he started to hear bawling next to him. Sure enough there was the kid, on his knees crying his eyes out and calling for his mommy. John sighed and shook his head at the kid, he's seen enough movies to know what happened to people like him in prison. The man sheathed his still bloody sword and glared daggers at the others.

"Any other questions?" he said in a dark voice.

No one dared to speak up, so he took it as a no. He waved his hand and a guard ran over with a clip board. He looked over the clip board before glancing at John, a smirk on his face. He pressed the clip board to his side and walked over until he was right in front of John.

"Lucky you, you get to bunk with Farrelly. Don't let me hear you two in the middle of the night."

John was confused by the comment, which obviously humored this man. Another whistle was blown and the convicts were whisked away in different directions, John being pushed towards Cell Block B. He was led to a large room with a bunch of jail cells, each with its own form of racket. They seemed endless though...just how many were there? John stopped counting at fifty. He was brought up to the second floor, third cell from the entrance. The guard unlocked his cuffs and opened his cell, pushing him in without warning and quickly closing the cell and leaving. John glared at the guard before turning to face his new room. It had a less than clean sink and toilet along with a mirror. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bunk bed, someone laying on the bottom bunk. The person on the bottom bunk rolled over to face him and John had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from squeaking. Laying rather provocatively on the mattress was a man who looked to be about his age with pale skin and fiery hair. The top part of the guy's jumpsuit was pushed down to his hips and tied, a black tank top covering his upper half. He looked over John with intense blue eyes as if judging him before swinging his legs over the side and jumping up, leaning on the bunk.

"Well, I was wonderin' when they would get me a new cellmate."

This man sounded like he was from Ireland, which John didn't find surprising. The Irishman held out his hand to John in a friendly manner.

"People call me Sheamus, and you're name fella?"

John stared at Sheamus' hand for a few moments before tentatively reaching out and shaking his hand.

"I'm…uh…John."

Sheamus raised an eyebrow at him. "You're goin' with John, eh? I guess that's fine, for now. Besides you don't really look like the type to be in here."

Sheamus turned around and plopped back onto his mattress, lacing his fingers and resting his chin on them looking at John with slight interest. "So what're ya in here for fella?"

John gulped a little, wondering if he should answer or not. Well, he was going to be spending a lot of time with this guy so it probably wouldn't hurt.

"Murder, but it wasn't my fault!"

Sheamus' eyebrows raided at John's statement. "You too fella? What was it, self-defense?"

"Erm…no, falsely accused. Why do you want to know?"

Sheamus' eyes seemed to darken for a moment before he laid back on his mattress.

"Mine was self-defense, but the only reason why I'm in here is 'cause for some reason in this god forsaken world no one will believe a hooker."

John stuttered a bit at the word 'hooker'. Even though he'd just met the guy Sheamus didn't seem like the hooker type. Sheamus saw the look on John's face and let out a rather loud sigh before sitting up and sitting Indian style.

"I'm not a hooker! I'm a trainer! The only reason I worked nights as a stripper was because I needed the money! Besides the bastard was askin' for it...he had a grip as tight as fuck on my neck. But seeing how the prick was rich the prosecuting fucker called me a hooker. There's a HUGE different between hookers and strippers,fella."

John stared at Sheamus with wide eyes after the rant. So he had a psycho warden and a cellmate who just happened to be an Irish stripper who also looked like he could snap his neck in two seconds. Well, he certainly had his work cut out for him.

**Yeah that was short and really bad but again this is just to see if you guys want more. If you do please tell me and I'll work my magic! Reviews are love!**

**Love and yaoi**

_**~ladyknights104 **_


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